


while your lips are still red

by aquilaofarkham



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Angst and Romance, Bittersweet Ending, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Forbidden Love, Human/Vampire Relationship, Lost Love, M/M, October Prompt Challenge, One Shot, mild ot3 at the very end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27048274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquilaofarkham/pseuds/aquilaofarkham
Summary: while he's still silentrest while bosom is still untouched, unveiledhold another hand while the hand's still without a tooldrown into eyes while they're still blindlove while the night still hides the withering dawn--Written for day 16 ofCastlevania Promptober: "Masquerade" ❤️
Relationships: Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Trevor Belmont
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	while your lips are still red

The hunter had come for his prey.

It would be a common affair yet entirely different from his usual stock. No coarse fur or the curved claws belonging to a lycanthrope who always shed its monstrous body upon death, leaving one final sting of guilt in the hunter’s gut. No hellish spawn crawling about on two, four, or perhaps even more legs. Not even the one-eyed beasts of old who dwelled beneath most ancient cities. Gorging itself off banquets of unseen pain while its victims, never again seen by those on the surface, remained trapped in stone prisons of their own bodies. Alive, though not really. Further from death, but closer to something much worse.

The sort of monster the hunter sought out that night was far more capable at the one trick its brothers and sisters of shadows could never achieve. It looked and sounded human from a distance, luring forth its own prey with words of sweetness few mortals could resist. By the moment they felt the creature tenderly kiss their artery, it was too late to run or refuse.

Those very same fools who welcomed their deaths so long as it came with decadence were some of the first patrons noticed by the hunter when he walked through the crowded doors. Rubbing elbows with warm bodies and cooler ones. Under their gaudy masks he could see them laughing, jesting, filling up on wine and figs while other dancers in embroidered overcoats and large dresses as light and buoyant as clouds surrounded them, utterly devoted to their pleasure. The mere passing sight made the hunter’s stomach drop. Despite the frivolities, the celebratory nature of every invitee, he knew blood would be spilled that night. He made certain if it came to that, it would be by his hand and his hand alone.

Deeper the hunter found himself in the exceedingly bright castle hall. Swirling above were chandeliers of shimmering jewels which painted the dizzy room in a dream-like haze. The hunter’s eyes, hidden behind a clever fox to blend alongside his perpetually tangled auburn hair and humble choice of formal dressings, were keen as ever. Though with each platter of balancing glasses that slipped past him, his own vices grew stronger.

He wasn’t the only predator attending the masquerade, and he knew that even a sly fox had to be careful amongst larger animals with sharp teeth. Lions with manes crafted from metal curls, minotaur heads atop finely suited bodies, accompanied by the occasional gorgon, each individual snake mouth seemingly frozen in time but wide open and ready to strike. Every one of them mingled with the lesser animal kingdom; all the delicate cats, crystalline butterflies, peacock feathers, and Venetian clowns with their bright red lips, begging for kisses. Any other well-meaning host of a costumed festivity would be aghast at the inclusion of plague doctors. However, the marriage between the morbid and joyous was welcome.

“You seem uptight, stranger.”

The hunter was never frightened so effortlessly. Yet with his thoughts so detached from the present moment, so fixated on the one monster he needed to search for, the sudden voice and its inquiry caused him to jump. It continued to speak, deep and soothing, tickling the hairs on the hunter’s back neck.

“Is this bacchanal not to your liking?”

The hunter positioned his body so that he could seem immoveable and unfazed by whomever this new arrival was. He turned to face his uninvited shadow but saw only a wolf. Two distinct amber eyes peered back, gazing intently. The ornamental ensemble melded with the white and gold of the ballroom while a long cape lay draped over one shoulder. Behind the cascade of fur were locks of silk-soft flaxen hair formed a halo around the courtier’s head. Never before had the hunter witnessed a wolf act so coy, nor a fox respond with such steadfast density.

“I’m not one for crowds.”

The wolf ran a hand over his plush cape as each sharpened nail sank. “Do the masks disturb you?”

“More like unsettling—the masks and whoever’s behind them.”

Their attention was brought to a different scene occurring just across the room. A young man, human no doubt, with another male and woman clinging to his arms, their lips and fingers teasing whatever tasteful glimpses of bare skin they could get their hands on while he simply giggled as though courted by a jester.

“They don’t mean any harm. None of them do.” The wolf graciously reassured, though not enough to convince the hunter. “This event is just to give those lonely mortal and immortal souls a chance to find companions; familiars as most here call them. And what better way to earn one’s undying trust than to endlessly dote upon them? Give them something they lacked elsewhere.”

“It’s not any of them I’m after.” Once again, the hunter’s bluntness offset the wolf’s carefree tone.

“You’re looking for someone yourself?”

“Not in the way you think.”

“Perhaps I can be of some assistance, then.”

This unexpected proposition created a crack in the hunter’s inner mask; the one which guarded his instincts and ability to trust. It would be the first of many that night. Yet suspicions still clouded his judgment of the attendee.

“It’s not normal for a stranger to offer help before offering their name.”

The wolf lowered his gaze, as if to agree with the hunter’s truthful observation. He flounders with his answer before meeting the other man’s eyes with confidence. “You may only know and refer to me as the prince.”

Cellos and harpsichords softened their tune as the hunter’s previous reservations about his intimate courtier returned in full force. “Rather stingy with names, are we?”

“Then tell me yours. Unless it somehow escaped just as your friend has.”

Overcome by chagrin, the hunter turned away from the self-proclaimed prince. He hoped to look somewhat distracted before giving his answer. A sly fox transformed into a timid sheep; an embarrassment to his profession.

“Most call me the hunter.”

The prince let out a peculiar sound, somewhere between a chuckle and the content hum of a person slowly becoming enamoured by another. Best and most unusually of all, it happened against his own preconceptions. Like a vine curling around a stone column, the prince wrapped an arm around the hunters’. Muscles stiffened under his touch, then loosened once his gentle fingers made it clear he meant no harm.

“Shall we retreat to the courtyard? There are no crowds out there and we could look for whomever it is you’ve lost in peace.”

Part of the hunter knew long before stepping over the castle threshold that those who were also attending would eventually try to endear themselves to him. They would use their own charms along with the masquerade’s inherent allure but always remember to leave the final choice to the hunter. He would thrust himself into a dancer’s arms where their moving bodies would meld together to the rhythmic swell of the music. Pour another glass of liquid red and let it warm his blood. Accept an invitation into one of the upstairs chambers where he’d never want to leave.

The hunter made his choice. He followed the prince’s lead under the belief that he had already found exactly what he was searching for.

* * *

The silence of the castle garden was deafening.

Led by the prince’s soft hand down a series of stone steps, the hunter found even the smallest drop of water from a nearby fountain as loud as any beating war drum. Sounds of merriment and unabashed indulgence grew smaller, quieter than a hummingbird’s wings the farther they walked. The heels of their boots tapped along the cobblestone pathways weaving throughout a maze of vines and roses. It was the roses which caught the hunter’s attention the most; stark red against deep green walls leading him in different directions, guided only by flashes of the prince’s white attire. The hunter never lost sight of him and never wanted to.

The arrived at the centre of the sprawling courtyard, marked by another garden made from marble caressed by a sculptor’s immaculate tools. Placate faces and glossed curves from another place, another time, glowing in the incandescent moonlight greeted the two wandering masqueraders with charitable silence. Not a hard edge was to be found on those immoveable, unblinking witnesses.

Entranced by how the middle fountain’s water remained still as midnight air despite the continually falling droplets, the hunter took some time to notice how the prince removed his fur cape and laid it atop a stone bench.

“Come. Sit before your legs give out.”

A slight buckle and ache of his knees and soon the hunter had no viable excuse to refuse or argue. He joined the prince in front of the fountain, the warmth of the fur beneath his hand further sweating his palm.

“Tell me, good fox hunter…” The prince began, his voice still smooth and sweet as honey; sweeter and smoother now that the hunter could hear him without the overwhelming distraction of other masks or music. “Your business is to kill monsters. Creatures of the night and the like.”

The hunter gave a wordless mumble of agreement, shifting uncomfortably next to the prince.

“An insultingly obvious inquiry, I know. But I must ask, considering tonight’s patronage, why did you decide to come? Will you not kill most of those still inside?”

A toast was proposed within the castle. Though the words were faint, both men could hear the clinking of glass and shouts of revelry which followed.

“Maybe I will,” the hunter replied once the orchestra roused themselves back to where they left off. “Maybe in a year, everyone and everything here will be dead by mine or some other hunter’s hand. But I’ve only come for one. This night might be my best chance.”

The prince’s lack of witty repartee prompted the hunter to finally reveal his situation. Perhaps the wolf already knew, perhaps he was biding his time as well, but clever foxes have always liked stories and liked telling them just as much.

“People speak of a local rumour, too recent and fresh in everybody’s mind to be considered a legend yet. Something not quite alive yet carries warm blood in its veins; a creature in both worlds and at the same time neither. Those lucky few—or unlucky depending on who you’re talking to—used to swear in every direction that they saw it wandering about in the woods and the very grounds of this castle. No villager ever got a decent look at the face, only the long golden hair and dark billowing cloak.’

‘That was before it started crossing over into more populated townships. Entire communities of superstitious lots driven mad as bats because they saw something moving in the corner of their eye, something they didn’t recognize. Nights were the worst. You’d hear the usual sounds, nothing to lose your head over. Cats in heat, drunks stumbling back towards their hovels, and houses that creaked whenever a gust of wind blew past. Soon enough, however, if you didn’t see the specter, then you certainly heard it. It hurt just to catch an earful of those distant moans and wails like the thing was crying itself dry.’

‘Most thought it was just a ghost. It sounded so bloody miserable; how could it not be? Then someone had to be curious, get closer, and see something they shouldn’t have. That’s when you start taking these common folk, these simple people of the land seriously. Because despite all the whispers and claims that you’re just as terrible as the beasts you hunt, you still stupidly hope for the day you can get back into their good graces. Because no ghost has ever been known to have fangs so sharp or so real.”

The hunter filled his lungs with much needed air, his mouth feeling dry. He didn’t mean to ramble on so such an amount of time nor did he intend for the story to sound so bitterly personal. Blaming his sudden emotiveness on the wine would have been a lie as nothing had touched his lips, save for his own hot breath.

“It’s my duty to put this creature down so that it never feels the urge to hurt others. This will be a mercy for us both.”

“Mercy,” the prince echoed. So quiet was he during the sad tale, his voice which cut through the soft stagnancy of the garden caused the hunter’s heart to quicken. “Or cruelty. There’s no mercy if the only solution to a problem is to kill it.”

After receiving no counter to his statement, the prince presented another query. “Did you ever stop to think of other possibilities?”

“Like what?”

“Why this being of night weeps so often yet never strikes. Perhaps something has been lost to him. Perhaps he desires companionship—someone to love.”

The prince turned to the hunter, peering past his mask and into his eyes. A rare thing for a fox to have blue eyes, but also a lucky one. “A hunter’s life is a lonely one, so I’ve heard. Is that true?”

“It’s not an easy life.” The hunter was shocked by the subtle tremble in his own tone. No longer did he want to be a fox courted by a wolf. No longer did he want to hunt. What sort of spell had the garden cast upon his wits for him to lose nearly all composure? As though privy to the contradictory thoughts jumbling around in his head, the prince held the hunter’s hand as a small offering of comfort.

“Then you must sympathize, if not a little.”

It was the hunter’s choice to follow the prince out into the courtyard with its endless vines of roses which creep and curl even along the very bench they sit atop. Smaller witnesses to the space between either man slowly disappearing. It was also the hunter’s choice to stay. His choice to let himself be drawn into the prince’s odd yet melancholic aura. Those truths of which he spoke of could not be denied.

“But what life could a hunter and creature have together. It wouldn’t be any easier.”

The prince curled his mouth into a sad smile. With each word, his voice lowered into a whisper as he lifted both masks. “Perhaps. But it could be an interesting one… a good one.”

Unencumbered by false faces, lips brushed against lips. The prince held the hunter’s rough jawline while his hands searched for something to steady themselves upon. He eventually found the prince’s arms. Closer they drew against each other and quieter the garden became.

* * *

Another voice joins them in the courtyard yet only the hunter acknowledges it. He opens both heavy lidded eyes, mouth, lips, and tongue softly tender from the prince’s affection. The voice is faint, coming and going with no reason thus making itself that much more easily discarded as a trick of the wind, but the hunter recognizes the gentle tone and definite accent. 

Though his mind lingers in a deep, pleasant mist, he tries focusing on where the voice might be coming from. One of the statues, behind a green hedge with splatters of red blooming in moonlight. It could be another mask excusing themselves from the ballroom in search of quiet sanctuary, alone or with their newly acquired familiar.

Yet the voice speaks the hunter’s name, over and over again. He never gave it to anyone. What if it’s coming from someplace else? What if it’s only in his muddled head. Or what if—

“Trevor? Can you hear me?”

Another light shake of his shoulder and Sypha finally succeeds in waking the beast. Trevor blinks his dazed eyes and jerks his head in a straight position while the rest of his body droops in the chair. The first thing to greet him is the blurred outline of Sypha’s wild strawberry hair along with the silhouette of her loose-fitting robes. He receives a smile and gives her a lazy one in return. 

“You have been down here for hours. I was beginning to think you had fallen and hit your head against something.”

“Nothing that exciting I’m afraid. Just happened to nod off. I’m fine, though.” A bit disoriented and stiff after spending lengthy amounts of time sitting in one spot, but fine, nonetheless.

The rest of the world fall into place the more his vision clears. Trevor finds himself in a candlelit room with no natural light from the outside, stationed in front of a coffin. No splintered wood or a touch of hallowed silver used by his family when they wanted to make sure that dead things stayed dead and buried. Trevor never thought he would call such a common reliquary of death beautiful, but this one deserves it. Ornate in its design, sprouting gold embellishments on every corner then across an emerald green surface, broader than most typical coffins.

“That was his favourite, wasn’t it?”

Trevor takes in Sypha’s question and feels a weight in his hand which has always been there since he sat down. Balanced against his knee is a leatherbound book opened to some page that might have already been read, or half read, or barely examined at all. If only sleep never caught its reader at an unexpected moment.

“Yeah. He seemed to enjoy all of this… romance. Sappy bastard.” He shuts the book, running his palm over the softened cover. The bones of each story and poem are the same, but the organs, muscles, and blood feel different in their execution. Some tell of mystery, dark corners where lovers whisper their deepest confessions against each other’s lips. Others of passion and cursing the fates so that two souls might be together. Trevor won’t make himself seem harder just to preserve what little remains of his dignity; he enjoys these stories as well. But reading inside a dimly lit underground chamber with no one but a body in a coffin to serve as his audience tends to drain an already exhausted man.

Then he does the same thing the next day. And the next. And the next, hoping for that weighted cover to open.

“I like to think he can still hear me in there.”

Trevor was once confident that he would only see the coffin once. It would be left as a relic beneath a city just trying to get its people back onto their feet—if they ever had steady footing to begin with. He made sure to keep it sealed, banished, and empty by deterring its owner away from those dismal choices. He tried to the point of desperation until one morning when there were only two inhabitants within the castle.

The day was spent playing a sick game of hide and seek before Trevor felt the knife of awful realization. Marching towards the half ruins of his childhood, he descended down, down into those dusty archives and found the coffin for a second time. 

All of Trevor’s anger at the cruel world, the very world which drove a man to such limits, hating himself, depising humanity, and fearing what he was capable of doing to others until it came time to put a lock and key on his own existence, everything burst out, ripping Trevor apart at the seams. He bloodied each knuckle upon the coffin with the knowledge that it would not open yet trying all the same. 

You promised, he shouted. You promised not to do this. 

Sypha found him and the stone ground was wet with both their tears.

Her arms wrap around Trevor’s shoulders as she presses his back to her chest. “I believe he can hear us. He’s not gone from us, just asleep. It’s better to keep him here while he does. Then we will be right here until he wakes up.” 

She’s said this before but will repeat it as many times as both need it. Thus, comes a familiar question which neither of them has an answer for yet: when. When will he wake up? In a year like before? In two years, or five, or twenty? They’re tired of this question despite asking it with every passing day. 

There’s another repetition, a mantra which Trevor will say until he loses the ability to speak or until he no longer has to. “Rest easy, Alucard. Rest and dream.”


End file.
